


don't keep talking bullshit

by soulofme



Category: TharnType the Series (TV)
Genre: M/M, Unhealthy Relationships, sex as a coping mechanism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:40:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23566213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulofme/pseuds/soulofme
Summary: The timeline of events goes something like this:Tharn and Type meet. Tharn and Type fall in love. Tharn and Type fight. Tharn and Type break up.And…Type comes to San.
Relationships: San/Type (TharnType), Tharn/Type (past)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 59





	don't keep talking bullshit

The timeline of events goes something like this:

Tharn and Type meet. Tharn and Type fall in love. Tharn and Type fight. Tharn and Type break up.

And…Type comes to San.

If he’s being truly honest, the last bit still manages to baffle him. When he opened the door this evening, the last thing he expected was to see Type _fucking_ Phawattakun glowering up at him like he had a bone to pick. Knowing him, he probably does. San doesn’t give a shit. The brat can hate him all he wants.

But still, nothing he thinks of can explain why he’s here, soaked from the rain, arms crossed tight over his chest as if he’s trying to look intimidating. San feels his eyebrows rising up to his hairline before he can school his expression into something neutral.

“Are you lost?” he asks, which rouses a dry laugh from Type.

“You must be happy,” he sneers, stepping in so that he’s right in San’s space. “You can swoop in and be the hero again, right? Just like fucking _always_.”

He shoves San back then, who stumbles mostly because he hadn’t been expecting it. But Type’s also fueled by anger now—at what, San doesn’t want to bother with—which makes him more aggressive than usual.

Translation: a bigger pain in San’s ass.

He leans against the doorframe, sizing Type up. His lips are red, maybe because he keeps tearing at them with his teeth. Or maybe it’s blood. The longer San looks at him, the deeper Type frowns.

“What are you on about?”

Type freezes, shoulders back like he’s trying so hard to look tough.

“He’s gone,” he spits. He doesn’t explain, but San gets it.

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Type snaps, going to shove him again. He growls when San catches his wrists in his hand. “ _Oh?_ He’s all yours, now. You can do whatever the fuck you want with him.”

“What happened?”

“Don’t act like you give a fuck.”

San shrugs. Type has him there.

“You coming in?”

He moves back, holds the door open in invitation. Type looks at him for a long, long moment before he steps in delicately, glancing distrustfully at San.

Even though he looks like a wet cat, San kind of gets what the appeal of Type is. He’s gorgeous, objectively. Long, slender neck. Small waist. Legs for days. The kind of features people tend to drool over. San thinks he’s allowed to say that, considering how he’s not clouded by love or whatever Tharn thought he had with Type.

Maybe Type catches him looking. Maybe that’s why his shoulders get so stiff. San rubs at the back of his neck and refrains from giving him another once-over.

“C’mere.”

He leads Type deeper into his house, back to the laundry room where he tosses a pair of sweats and a tee-shirt at him. He leaves him alone to change, deciding to make tea for his impromptu guest. He doesn’t even know if Type _likes_ tea. But he figures he should at least seem hospitable. Or something.

He’s just set the water to boil when Type walks into the kitchen, toweling his hair dry. San’s pants are too long on him, bunching up around the ankles. His eyes are sharp when they meet San’s. But he doesn’t say a word as he sits at the counter, furrowing his eyebrows as he continues drying his hair.

San gravitates towards him, leaning over the counter.

“Why the hell are you here?” It’s a valid question. He’s pretty sure he’s the last person Type would want to be around as he licks his wounds.

“I needed to talk to you.”

Type sets the towel aside, the dark expression on his face molding into something soft, almost vulnerable. He’s chewing at his lower lip again, fists clenched tight where they rest on the counter.

“What?” San asks, blinking in surprise. Type powers on, seemingly ignoring that.

“You’re better for him, aren’t you?” he asks, staring hard at his own hands. “You know him. You give a shit about how he feels. You’re patient.”

“Yeah, but…he chose _you_ ,” San says, shaking his head. This doesn’t make sense. None of this _makes sense_. “He wants you.”

“Tharn,” Type begins, choking on the name, “doesn’t want _me_. Not anymore.”

The silence around them feels oppressive. San’s brain goes blank, unable to do anything but repeat Type’s words over and over to himself. They echo in his ears long after Type has spoken, bouncing around in his mind even when he tells himself _okay, I get it_.

The kettle whistles, snapping them both out of whatever this is. San switches the range off and pops a tea bag into a cup before topping it off with water. He offers it to Type, who stares at it but makes no move to take it.

“Say something.” Type’s angry all over again, words bitten out all rough and acidic, a wrinkle forming between his eyebrows.

“Like what?”

“Like, you saw it coming,” Type says, losing certainty when he sees how calm San is. “That it’s my fault.”

“Is it?”

“Isn’t it always?”

He answers too quickly, like he’s been thinking about it for a while. San’s surprised, honestly. He didn’t think Type had an introspective bone in his body.

“Is that what did it?” San asks, snorting. “He got tired of you bitching and left?”

“So what?”

“So,” San begins, shrugging. “I guess that _would_ be your fault, right?”

He watches the way Type’s shoulders slump, the way he curls in on himself as he fight leaves his body. It’s fucking weird as hell. Type insecure and angry, that’s normal. But insecure and…sad? That’s something else entirely.

Bringing the rum out is an impulsive action. He pours out a shot for Type and one for himself. This time, Type grabs the glass from San’s outstretched hand. He throws it back before San can do so much as blink.

Tea had been a shitty idea, then.

They don’t say anything to each other. San pours out more shots. Type drinks. After a while, he slams his glass down, already looking a little pink-cheeked. They’ve gone through a quarter of the bottle already.

“You know what’s funny?” he spits, his big, dark eyes looking almost shiny. “He’s probably more hurt than I am. But _I’m_ the one all fucked up.”

“You were already fucked before you met Tharn.”

“You don’t know me,” Type mutters.

“I know enough about you,” San counters.

And Type goes quiet, reaching for the bottle to drink more. San lets him, settling down across the counter from him. He feels something, something that he can’t put a name to, but it roars in his ears, overwhelming all of his other senses.

Maybe it’s a warning. Maybe now is when he should usher Type along, send him home in a cab and make some bullshit promise about everything being okay.

He doesn’t, probably because he’s more an asshole than he’s willing to admit most of the time. He feels sick when he looks at Type and thinks, distantly, that he looks kinda pretty when he cries.

He doesn’t know how they migrate to the living room, or how the rum bottle follows after them like it’s along for the ride. He doesn’t know how he and Type end up together on the couch, chugging from the bottle with every inch of them pressed up against each other.

He doesn’t remember who kisses who, either. But there’s steady pressure against his lips, and when he reaches up it’s to tangle his fingers into the hair at the nape of Type’s neck. He tastes like rum when San licks into his mouth, dragging his tongue across the sharp ridges of Type’s teeth.

But he knows it’s Type who crawls up into his lap, swinging his leg over so that he’s straddling San’s thighs. He’s a firm weight there, solid against him, and San realizes it’s been months since he’d last had someone on top of him like this.

He squeezes Type’s thighs, his hips, his ass, and really, _really_ gets what Tharn saw now. Type’s fingers are digging into San’s shoulders. He wonders if there will be skinny little finger-shaped bruises left behind.

“Are you gonna regret this?”

It’s enough to get Type to stop, to take a breath and sit back on San’s thighs. His lips are so, so red.

“Maybe,” Type says. It’s not a _yes_. San purposefully ignores that it isn’t a _no_ either.

He doesn’t know what’s happening between them, why he’s running his hands all over Type’s body and feeling like he’s touching another man’s property.

Until he remembers that Type isn’t Tharn’s anymore. Until he realizes that he’s feeling a hell of a lot like a rebound. There’s that overwhelming feeling again, but now it’s because his heartbeat’s thundering in his ears, loud enough that he swears Type can hear it.

Type grabs a fistful of his hair and pulls him forward. San lets himself be directed, slides his hands down Type's back to rest over his sweats and grab at his ass. Squeezes, hard enough that Type lets out this filthy groan against the corner of San’s lips.

His lips feel puffy and sore, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t stop moving against Type, sucking bruises onto his pretty, _pretty_ neck. He wonders if Tharn’s ever done the same, if Tharn’s ever wanted to mark up every inch of Type’s infuriatingly perfect body.

He scratches his nails down the small of Type’s back until he whines, soft and pitiful. San wants to hear what other sounds he can get out of him.

He doesn’t resist when San grabs his hips, forcing them into motion. The dry friction of his pants against the swollen head of his dick aches in the worst kind of way. Type’s hips begin rocking on their own, keeping steady, even pressure against San’s crotch.

He’s hard. So hard that when San looks down, there’s a big wet patch on the front of Type’s borrowed pants. Curious, he wiggles his hand down the back of his sweats. He’s met with smooth, warm skin. Skin that jiggles when San smacks the flat of his palm down on it, just because he can.

“Type,” he says, the words so low he almost forgets he’s even speaking. “What do you want?”

He doesn’t think he truly cares, but his brain’s spewing out all this shit before he can even stop and realize what’s going on. He’s got Tharn’s ex-boyfriend in his lap, rocking down against him like he’s trying to get fucked.

It makes his head spin.

Type is selfish. But San feels that right now, he’s worse than Type can ever be. He wants to take whatever he can, take until Type has nothing left to give. But he won’t, because he’s not _that_ kind of asshole.

He’s enough of one to force Type’s hips to move in a tight, harsh circle, though.

“You,” Type growls, and San realizes that’s the answer to his question.

The world tilts on his axis when he shoves Type down, bracketing his head with his arms. Type stares up at him, mouth parted, _panting_ , and something inside of San snaps.

He cups Type’s jaw, stroking a thumb over one flushed cheek. He presses down on that red, red mouth until it opens for him, until Type rolls his tongue around it, sucking on it like he’s pretending it’s a cock.

He flicks his eyes up to meet San’s, sucking hard enough that his cheeks hollow. He’s got a hand around San’s wrist, like he’s afraid he’ll pull away.

As if San can even do that now.

With his free hand, he rucks up Type’s shirt. He gropes his toned stomach, works his way up to his chest where he can thumb at one of his hard nipples. Type arches beneath him like he’s been electrocuted, legs coming to wrap firm around San’s waist.

He slips his thumb out of Type’s mouth and shoves two fingers in before he can make a sound. He goes as deep as he can until Type begins gagging, his eyes shiny with tears for the second time this night.

“Messy,” San says, removing his fingers and watching as a thin line of saliva dribbles down the side.

“Fuck me,” Type hisses.

They can’t. Not because San has any lingering conscience, but because he’s not gonna last long enough to fish out a condom and lube.

“Later,” he says, breathless, and it almost sounds like a promise when he puts it like that.

He spreads Type’s thighs apart, rolling his hips forward, gritting his teeth at how fucking _good_ the friction is. He’s thinking of Tharn again, wondering, wondering if—

“Did he fuck you like this?”

The words spill out without his permission. It gets Type’s eyes all wide, the next sound coming from him a punched-out moan.

“Did he?” he asks when Type remains silent, ceasing all movement.

Type, even with his red face and heaving chest, has the guts to _laugh_.

“He’s better than you,” he says, running his goddamn mouth yet again. “He’s better than you’ll ever fucking be.”

It makes him see red, which doesn’t make sense. But San figures he’s given up sense long ago. He grinds into Type with purpose, squeezing whatever part of him he can, hoping to leave behind his mark.

And Type…Type grabs his hair, his shoulders, his _cock_. He jerks him over San’s pants, firm and sure as anything. San wants to see his long fingers on his bare cock, wants to see what he looks like when he’s finally stuffed full.

“You don’t have him now,” San reminds him, just to see the way Type’s eyes flash angrily. “All you have is _me_.”

It’s a funny little situation they’ve gotten themselves in. Type doesn’t want San, and San doesn’t want Type. Except right now, it feels a lot like he _does_. Like he wants to give it to Type so, so good that he never talks about Tharn again.

He doesn’t know why his possessiveness is rearing its head like this. But he doesn’t have time to think about it, because Type uses his legs to flip San on his back, sitting astride him once again.

“Fuck me.”

The words feel like a knife piercing San’s chest. But he hauls Type up, digging his fingers into his thighs as he carries him to the bedroom. When he throws Type down onto his bed he bounces, raising himself up onto his elbows so that their eyes meet.

“ _Fuck me_ ,” he says, with even more bite than before, dragging San down by the front of his shirt.

“Whatever you want,” San whispers, pushing Type back to give him all of him.


End file.
